


My Cat is a F*ing Idiot.

by TouchTheSky



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: #letcatraswear, Cats, Disaster Lesbians, Eating Disorders, F/F, Fluff is coming, Herding Cats, Implied/Referenced Abuse, lots of swears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-30 18:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21432745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TouchTheSky/pseuds/TouchTheSky
Summary: Hey I'm Catra and my stupid cat snuck out of the window of my apartment so I climbed after him and ended up in your flat and now you're home and I'm on the floor and I swear I'm not a burglar okay but your reaction to me is super suspicious I bet you don't really work in Starbucks.
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 278





	1. My Cat is a F*ing Idiot.

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt found on Tumblr, but I forget where! More chapters to come, unsure how many!

My cat is a fucking idiot.  
It's the middle of the night and I just got back from practice. My shoulders are stiff as hell and there's a silk burn under my arm and a purple stripe of bruise up a thigh. Cirque du Horde is a fucking nightmare of a workplace and Shadow Weaver runs a ship so tight it rivals the ridiculous spray-on spandex we wear. Rehearsals started at six and I don’t know what damn time it is now, but it’s late enough at night that it’s starting to be early. 

Basically, I ache all over and I am in no mood for shit from anyone. So shit is exactly what I get.

I bang into my tiny apartment, dropping my bag in its usual spot and scuffing barefoot over carpetless floors into the main room. My movements echo, not from the size of the place but from sheer lack of stuff. I have one chair, one table, one set of everything basic in the kitchen, a bed and a bag of combs and stuff for my hair. Aside from the regulation make-up and outfits from the Horde, PJs and the stuff for my cat, that’s the extent of my possessions.

I should start a fucking minimalist Youtube channel. 

“Food time.” I mutter, getting out the cat food mix from the cupboard (three types combined - for his teeth, his breath and his allergies - he’s such a fricken princess) and shake it loudly, waiting for the chirps and for his blunt stupid head to bump into my knees.

Nothing.

I shake out the food and wait. No movement anywhere.

“Hey.” I say, loud enough to carry round the kitchen/lounge/diner, to my mattress hidden behind the screen in the corner, and the pokey bathroom. Still nothing. He never sleeps through food. Ever.

Sighing, I pad around the room, wishing I’d remembered to turn on the heating before I left. Octobers in this city are fucking freezing and the Horde regulation lycra isn’t helping. 

I can’t see the little bastard anywhere- probably shut himself in a drawer or something. 

“Where are you?” I turn over the cushions on my chair half-heartedly, checking under the kitchen counter and in the cupboards. Nada. 

I stop and rub my arms, frowning. Something’s wrong. I’m cold, but from this angle I can see the thermostat light is on. What the actual hell?   
Then I feel it. The breeze. 

It huffs across the back of my neck and for a moment I shiver for a completely different reason.

[I definitely don’t flinch and I definitely don’t remember the way He used to hiss before he grabbed me. I definitely don’t hear Him say it, fresh as blood. _Disobedient girl_.]

“Fucking _hell_, cat. Where are you?” 

I slap the thought away and scruff up the back of my hair. The windows in the main room are shut and this place doesn’t have air con. So there’s only one place a breeze could be coming from. 

It takes me two seconds to get to the bathroom, find the open window and let forth a volley of curses in at least three languages. I even impress myself sometimes. 

I stick my head out of the window and there he is, staring at me. Of course he’s just out of reach. Stupid scraggly thing with his big eyes and knobbly knees and the stupid kink in his tail from the time he shut it in a door all by himself. 

Honestly, it’s a miracle he’s alive.

I look down; he’s out on this tiny ledge, his fat butt and skinny legs unbalancing him already. Below, wayy below, traffic passes in screeching yellow and red stripes. Other than that, it’s just a black void of night air and concrete. 

I swallow hard. 

“Here kitty,” I say, trying to keep the shake out of my voice “Here, boy. Come on you eejit. Come back,” I stick out my hand, wrist upturned, palm cupped as though I’ve got something in it. I see his nose twitch, his whiskers puffing out. He’s fallen for it. Obviously. 

He leans out a little, towards my hand….

And then retracts, hunches in and _yowls_ at me. Or at least it would be a yowl on a cat that was less fucking lame. Instead it’s more like a whiny rowwwllll sound. I roll my eyes. 

“You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

Rooooowwwwlllllllll….. At least he looks embarrassed. Or that might just be his face.

“Come on,” I tell him, coaxing again “Come back..”

Nothing. More minutes pass and he just gets smaller and yowlier. 

I’m looking out at that skinny ledge, guaging the distance against my armspan, and the window’s width to my shoulders’ before I can tell myself how fucking suicidal I’m being. The second I work out that if I can get out onto the window ledge I’m within grabbing distance, then there’s no going back. 

The breeze ghosts across the back of my neck again. I’m still triggered and on edge. My whole body aches. I’m tired.   
I have to make a choice. 

“Damn you to kitty hell.” I hiss, but I clamber onto the toilet seat then out onto the window ledge. 

The apartment block is old and the outside is carved into stupid cherubs and curling leaves and crap. Each floor has a different design and the carvings run in a ribbon around the edge of the apartment building, skimming just below each window. The carved design has a ledge on the top of it and the bottom of it. My least favourite fluffball is currently perched on the top ledge, huddled over to my left, close but too far to reach. The ledge is parallel to my windowsill; easy to climb out. It’s about the width of a balance beam, really. Only with a twenty-storey death drop rather than a crash mat underneath. 

“Don’t make me do this,” I coo at the cat, clicking my fingers “Don’t make me come and get you.”  
I lean, inches from his collar. 

What I don’t realise is that this convenient ledge also provides the fucking cat with a little highway round the side of the building. The moment I get within grabbing distance, he’s off… away from me. I hiss, lunging for him, but he just wobbles further away. He even has the audacity to look back at me, puffed up and terrified, before scurrying even further down the ledge. 

“Oh you’re too scared to come back, like, a metre,but you’re fine running twice as far to get away?!”   
Forget the pizza in the freezer. When i get him back, I’m cooking and eating _him_ for dinner. See how he likes _that_. 

I look at the ledge. I look at the cat. I deliberately don’t look at the drop. Then I sigh.   
Fuck it. My name’s Catra after all, maybe some of the nine lives are still left. 

I wriggle out of the window, lowering my feet to the bottom ledge and twisting so that my stomach is flat to the wall. I make sure I have a good hold before I let go of the window frame, but my heart is still thumping in my ears. 

This is like the balance beam in training. That’s all.  
The night air bites into my exposed arms and through the mesh parts of my rehearsal costume. I don’t look down, just at the cat, trying to soften the rage in my eyes with gentle hands and coaxing words.

The window is way too far to get back to now and my adrenaline levels are rising quickly from ‘am I performing?’ to ‘I’m gonna barf’.   
_It’s just a balance beam.  
I’m fine.   
I’m fucking fine.   
So fine.   
Yes. _  
He moves again, turning fully around this time and running round the corner of the building.  
I’m gonna CRUSH that cat when I get him. SQUISH. CRUNCH. KILL. RAGE.

I’m so furious that I’ve made it to the corner before I realise what I’m doing. There’s a balcony just around the corner, jutting out over the drop like the prow of some renaissance ship. Apparently my neighbour has one of the bigger apartments in the complex, with multiple rooms, each one opening onto a balcony and a south-facing view. 

Guess where the cat runs to? He skitters onto the lip of the balcony and drops down behind it, out of sight. I scramble after him, landing on the (thank god) flat, solid, appropriately-walled patio on the other side. The balcony is about the length of a bed, and I can see three more in the darkness beyond. Does the apartment stretch all that way?   
Will I have to chase this cat all that way?

I wait for a moment, sitting on stone so cold I can feel it in the bones of my butt, and the world slowly stops spinning. By the time the spots are out of my eyes my luck’s got even worse.  
I can’t see the cat. 

Panic gives me enough adrenaline to get back onto my hands and knees. Just in time I see his tail disappear...into my neighbour’s fancy apartment.   
The balcony door is ajar. Someone left it unlocked. No, not unlocked- it’s a screen door, made out of some papery fabric and my idiot cat has just headbutted the edge until there’s a big enough hole to worm through. 

Whoever owns this apartment is an idiot. Paper doors? Why would anyone use paper doors?   
(well probably because they didn’t think someone was going to climb onto their balcony that happens to be twenty storeys up, you idiot.)

The cat’s tail vanishes. I realise three fundamental truths at the exact same time.  
My cat just committed B&E.  
I have to go after him.   
I am definitely going to jail.

I prod the paper screen. The cat’s done most of the work; it snaps away easily from the flimsy wooden grid that holds it in place. It reminds me of one of those screen doors you see in Japanese teahouses in holiday commercials. I pick at the glued lining again. The hole is now large enough for me to get my head in. I peer into the dark. The cat’s eyes glow back at me, just out of reach. 

I have to go inside. He’s never going to come out now. Plus, I’m so cold I’m shaking (that’s definitely the only reason why I’m shaking). Maybe if I’m just out of the wind for a second, just to catch my breath, I’ll be able to get him back with me. I’ll be able to climb out again…

My stomach flips, which is universal gut language for _howaboutfuckNO_, as soon as the thought forms, but I squish it down again. Get the cat now. Plan escape later.  
I scratch at the screen a bit more, glad for once of my unnaturally long and sharp nails (yes, they grow like that. Born with it - suck it, Maybelline.). The hole doesn’t need to get much bigger before I can get my head and shoulders inside (I’m built lean, and Shadow Weaver’s got a thing about making us do contortion. I think she likes hearing our bones pop.). I slide on my stomach across some kind of mat, focussing on the cat. 

I finally get a sliver of luck. He doesn’t move as I approach. When I’m inside, I get on all fours and stretch out a hand. He sniffs my fingers then rubs himself down my forearm. I catch his collar and my legs give way so i slide sideways onto my butt. He promptly clambers into my lap and purrs like a lawnmower, as though he’s never done a thing wrong in his life.

I go to wring his neck, but end up scratching under his chin. Then his cheeks, then his ears.   
“You idiot,” I murmur, my voice softer than it has any right to be. “You had me worried s-”

BAM

Light. Bright and everywhere. I flinch and hiss, keeping a grip on the cat. 

Someone’s home. Someone’s heard me.

Oh holy shit.

SHIT.


	2. I'm definitely going to jail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! This is literally the first time I've ever done a second chapter on this site haha. Maybe because it's NaNoWriMo and this is my challenge...any other WriMos out there? Say hi :)

Chapter 2: I’m going to jail

HOLY SHIT. 

I yelp and scrub the dazzled dots from my eyes. 

There’s a woman in the doorway; tall and blonde and, even at a glance, buff as hell. Her hair is loose and fine, ruffled down to her shoulders, and her shorts-and-tank pyjamas show off every tanned, toned inch of her. Shit. I’ve broken into the life of a complete (hot) stranger and who is clearly capable of crushing me with a pinkie finger (yes please - NOT NOW CATRA), and clearly just woken her up. 

I am so screwed.

“NOT what this looks like!” I blurt before she says anything “Look my fucking cat escaped and somehow got round here and I just came in to get him and I’ll be gone now I promise, I-” I scramble to my feet, forgetting the cat at exactly the wrong moment. With a yelp he falls off me, clawing my lycra on the way down, then takes off across the flat - and vanishes.

He’s gonna go and pee somewhere now. I just know it. 

All this happens in barely a second. I open my mouth for more excuses, or to swear at the cat, but I don’t have time to even decide which because Blondie has somehow crossed the room in three strides and pinned me to the wall with one (rock solid omg) forearm. I struggle, knowing I could scratch my way out but at the same time desperate not to make this worse (knowing my luck, things can _always_ get worse.)

“Who sent you?” Her voice is low, husky in a way that made me suddenly very aware of the thinness of my clothes, of the air between her skin and my skin. (Goddamnit _Stop._) “How did you find me?”

“Not…sent...” I gasp, trying to point “M-my...cat-”

There’s a pause that lasts forever, then she lets me go so suddenly that I nearly sag straight to the floor. 

“Your cat?”

“Y-yeah.” I catch myself on the wall just in time, gasping and dizzy. She didn’t hurt me- she wasn’t even holding me hard enough to restrict my air, but it isn’t any easier to breathe with her still close to me like this. She smells like fresh cotton and sleep. Her eyes keep me pinned to the wall (they’re bright blue, of course - my kryptonite). “Yeah my stupid cat he-....he’s…. he’s here somewhere.”

As if on cue, a blunt, mousey head pokes itself out from under her sofa. The little asshole saunters out across the room without a care in the world and then - the _audacity_ \- starts rubbing himself all over Blondie’s long bare legs. 

WhattheactualFUCK?!

“Th...that’s my cat.” I say, watching him wind his tail around her knees.

She frowns “You mean Kyle?”

“You called him _Kyle_?”

“Yes.” She huffs at me, and a flush of pink climbs up her neck “H-he just looks like a Kyle.”

We both look at the cat, who has flopped down between us and is currently trying to lick his paws and getting the floor 50% of the time.  
…  
I mean, he does. He actually does. 

God _damn_ her.

“But he’s mine,” I say. I’m fully aware that I sound like a child right now but, seriously, cut me a fucking break. “He lives with me.”

“No, he lives here,” Blondie insists “Look-” she points to the corner of the (very neat, furnished in a weird personality-free showroom way) apartment, where a matching set of bowls for water and food sit on a (holy shit is that _monogrammed_??) mat. “I’ve had him for months.”

“How many months?”

She shifts her weight and looks away. “About five.”

“HA. I’ve had him for _seven_ months.” I crow like its a victory. Like I’m not literally trespassing right now. Cat’s mine. Mine. Moral fucking highground, Blondie.

Blondie’s blush deepens and that’s satisfying in so many ways. “Did you give him the collar?” she asks.

“No. He had it when I found him.” 

Instantly, her whole face sharpens “So you found him too. You didn’t get him from a pet store.”

“What does it matter? I found him first.”

This is true. Or rather, he found me. I was coming home sometime in late March, dazed to shit as it was performance season and those things take it OUT of a girl. I was fumbling for my keys and this little floofer came and just attached himself to me, mewling the place down and purring and trying to climb up my leg. In the end I scooped him up onto my shoulder just to get him out from under my feet. This guy? A total shoulder cat. By the time I reached the top floor, I was in love. I tried to find his owners for weeks - checked cat shelters, put up posters, and was ridiculously relieved when it came to nothing. Eventually, I gave up. He moved in with me and has been fucking up my life ever since.

This time though? This time he’s _really_ outdone himself. 

Blondie doesn’t seem to notice my existential flashback. Instead, her mouth opens and closes a couple of times, as though she’s trying to find a way to retaliate but nothing’s coming up. 

“If Kyle’s your cat,” she says eventually, her voice much smaller than before “then what do you call him?” Her eyes burn into mine and I quake.

“Whiskers.” I blurt. This is a lie. I don’t call him anything because cats are their own fucking people (and also I’m chronically indecisive and have like 50 names on rotation. Sue me.) I’m sure she can tell, but she can’t prove it, which is more important. 

“That’s...a good name.” Blondie is still frowning, but she's nibbling her lower lip and avoiding eye contact. The quake in my knees subsides. 

Here’s what I want to say: _No it’s freaking unoriginal. We should call him Kyle. Yes, ‘we’. Let’s adopt him together and maybe I’ll look after him and you can pay me in massages because WOAH._

Here’s what I actually say: “Yeah much better than stupid ‘Kyle’. Can I take him home yet?”

“Home?”

“Yeah, I live next door,” I say “'came across from the balcony.”

“You climbed around the _outside_?” 

“Well, yeah, duh.” I scoop up the cat and hold him tight, burying my fingers in his fur to counteract the shake in my fingers. I could be handling this better. I know I could be but this girl is a LOT and everything about her is setting me on fire and I’m so cold and shaky and tired and-

“You must love him very much,” she says.

I freeze. We stare at each other and her eyes are so soft they break my heart. I try to speak but I can’t find the words. There’s so much going on in her face that I can’t read it. I stroke K-...I stroke the cat instead, calming us both. “I do. Yeah”.

“The door’s this way,” she says, and leads me down a hallway twice the length of my apartment, with several doors leading off them (holy crap this place is MUCH bigger than mine. But somehow just as sterile. She has vases of plastic flowers and beige everywhere like a grandma. It’s weird.)

We pause again at the door. She asks me if I have keys and I say I do (they were in a pocket in my leggings, but I can also pick a lock, not that I tell her that). I tell her she should patch up the patio screen and she agrees. We stare for too long, and I just can’t get over the sadness in her big beautiful face. The way she keeps looking at the cat - at _my cat_ \- makes my chest ache.

“You know…” I look away and start talking before my brain can catch up “We could...I could leave the window open again, so he can keep coming round?”

“Better not.” Blondie says, “It’s really dangerous- it would be safer for him to stay indoors...with you.”

_Well okay, fuck you then princess. Clearly you don’t want anything more to do with me and therefore neither should Kyle._

_DAMN IT DON’T CALL HIM KYLE._

“Fine.” I say, all venom. “Suit yourself.” I hoist the cat a little further up onto my shoulder and step out into the hall. Mercifully, he stays put. 

The door is closed before I’ve even turned around. From there, I just have to turn the corner and I’m at my front door. Kyle is mewing and restless on my shoulder, clearly overdue food, but once I’ve let him in and he’s scattered said food all over the floor (maybe I _should_ get a mat. I’m not fucking monogramming it though) he comes and finds me where I’m curled up in a ball on my single armchair (stop it, okay? I’m just tired) and clambers obnoxiously all over my lap until he finds a suitable niche between my knees and my stomach. I stroke him slowly, answering his concerned headbutts with enough scratches to soothe him into a full-throated purr.

“I know, buddy,” I murmur “I know. I liked her too.”


	3. Worse still, she's a hugger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra's life at the Horde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter threeeeee :D 
> 
> This isn't the happiest of chapters, but I PROMISE there will be fluff on the way! They just have to earn it first, it's Catradora after all :)
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: Extra trigger warnings of implied disordered eating.

So I suppose I should tell you more about my life, rather than just the stuff involving Blondie and Kyle. 

Yes I do have a life. Shut up. Trouble is it's 90% getting yelled at by Shadow Weaver, 9% keeping Kyle alive…

...and okay fine AND it's 1% thinking about Blondie. 

_One. Percent. Only._

Anyway. 

My actual life is at the Horde. Specifically, the HQ, our main training school which, out of all the forsaken places in this world, happens to be in this city. It’s barely a block from the apartment building that I live in and, apart from my very rare days off, I spend most of my time either there or asleep in my flat. 

The day after the cat fiasco is not different. I'm early to practice as usual, at least an hour before even Lonnie, who is one of those insufferable people who goes on sunrise runs and uses hashtags like #morningmotivation and #swolegoals.

Ugh.

(I mean she _is_ swole goals but that's not the point).

Shadow Weaver is waiting for me. I don't see her until I'm out on the gym floor, stripping off to start my warm up stretches. She can do that - pass unnoticed when she's right next to you, or suddenly be at your shoulder, close enough to hear the secrets in your head. 

She's sitting in her usual chair - the one we jokingly called the Iron Throne before Game of Thrones went to shit, which gives her a perfect view of the whole cavernous practice space. The lights are low in the huge training chamber, making the shadows dance (weave, if you like) around her, as though she can bend them to her will.

Which she can’t. Definitely. I am definitely sure of this. 

I continue with my stretches, taking extra care to keep the proper form and not look up at her. She doesn’t like it when people stare, and too many of them do, since the accident. It’s left her with a jagged scar across her face, like a shard of red glass, and the skin is taut in a way that makes it shine just a little. Some people find it chilling. I hardly notice it anymore. 

“Further,” she says as I start to come out of a shoulder stretch, suddenly, knowing I’ll flinch. I’m sure you’ve figured it out by not but she’s not exactly a “good morning” kind of person. 

"Hey Shadow Weaver," I drawl, trying for nonchalance and failing as normal.

She stands and comes towards me. She doesn't have her mask of make up on at this hour and her loose dancer’s sweater and the small flyaways from her loose bun soften the hard edges of her just a little. I like these times best, when it's just me and her. When she's less guarded.

Like it used to be.

See, I don't really have parents. Well, not ones that wanted me anyhow. Back when Shadow Weaver adopted me into the Horde I was so small and scrawny the parallel bars were thicker than my twiggy legs. I was pathetic. Poor malnourished orphan with a hundred and ten percent chance of ending up garbage in some way shape or form.  
Until Weaver. She’s given me everything I have.

Now, she glides across the crash mats - barely leaving an impression beneath her feet.

"My _dear_ Catra," she says, softly. Her hand touches my cheek. It's cool, and her pointed nails press just a little against my skin. I shiver. I try not to lean in. 

"Yeah?"

"If you gain any more weight I am going to put you back on ration bars. Do you understand?" Her voice is so thin that the blade of it goes right between my ribs. 

"_What_?" I squeak, looking down and flushing in shame "b-but I lost-"

"Catra," she croons, so soft "you know better than anyone not to trust the scale." She narrows her eyes "I want you doing shuttle runs until the others get here."

We both know that'll be almost an hour. We both know a HIIT workout before a ten hour day in the gym is going to _hurt_.

I wait. That's the worst part - even after all these years I wait. But she says nothing.

"Whatever you say, Shadow Weaver." I shrug, deliberately. 

Then I start running. 

+++++++++++++++

It’s hours later, somewhere around lunch, and I'm trying for the eleven millionth time to stick the landing on one of the flips for our next floor routine. Lonnie's spotting me and even she has noticed something's up. I like Lonnie, which is a lot considering that I'm what is known as a fully-fledged asshole and generally resent people for breathing. This time though, her fricken observant..ness...is making me wanna punch her. 

"Hey Catra," she says as I crunch sideways with a yelp yet another time. "Hey, stop. You okay?"

"Course I'm okay," ugh she's trying to grab my elbow. I jerk free "Mind your own business."

"Hey, this _is_ my business," she gets my forearm this time and, though I twist, she doesn't let go. "Listen; we're a team, got that? You fail, we all fail. Plus, as the base in this whole routine, I am not getting your foot in my face in the middle of an act later just to spare your precious feelings now." She tightens her grip, lips pressed together. Lonnie has a way of saying words that should be yelled in a way that sounds kind. 

"I won't mess up." 

"I know you won't, Catra." Her eyes go soft. I hate that even more. "You've never put a toe wrong in performance, like ever. Look...is it ...are you having problems again? Because if that's it then I'm here for you. Seriously, we can go talk to Shadow Weaver and I'll help you to-"

"No."  
"What do you mean, no? She's your guardian isn't she? Sure she's no princess but -"

_Oh Lonnie. Sweet, dumb Lonnie. _

"I said _no_, okay? Leave Shadow Weaver out of this."

She's smart enough to read my face then, and backs the hell up. "Woah, okay. Jeez. Go change your tampon or something."

"Whatever." I'm just about to stalk off and sulk up somewhere high when there's a BAM and the doors to the gym fly open. Everyone stops and looks surprised. I'm not; there's only one person on earth dumb/brave enough to risk damaging Horde property in Shadow Weaver’s presence. 

Sure enough, here she comes. Her big clodhopping feet booming on varnished wood. 

Scorpia.

We go way back. Not as far as me and Shadow Weaver, but pretty damn far. 

She's a couple of years older than me and a strongwoman; one of a troupe of Shadow Weaver’s favourites. Plus, she’s huge - 6'4" of muscle is no joke. 

Worse still, she's a hugger.

"KITTY!" She scoops me up off the floor and then fucking _crushes me_ til my ribs crack.

"SCORPIA GETTHEFUCKOFFMERIGHTNOW!" I swear if I had actual claws I'd tear her to ribbons. She, as usual, isn't bothered, just gives me a final squeeze and sets me down like I'm a desk lamp or something. 

"Savage as ever, huh Wildcat?" She says with that big nonsensical smile. “Gee, I’ve really missed you.”

I scowl at her. "I _told_ you not to call me Wildcat."

"No? Thought it would be a good name for you. Y'know, for when you make Captain."

I snort. Loudly. "Oh yeah like _that_ will ever happen."

“Weaver still keeping you out of the main Horde?” She asked, as though that wasn’t blindingly obvious. “Guess she’ll just miss you too much. What a good mama.”

“She’s not my mother,” I bristle “Now get out of my way, I need to stick this landing.” I push past her and run to the other side of the mats, ignoring the ache in the ball of my foot that definitely shouldn’t be there. The rage powers me through and, suddenly, it all comes together. I land the final flip with a perfect thunk of feet on sprung floor and throw my arms up like an Olympic gymnast, just for a second I feel like that little kid I was again, just aching to play on the biggest climbing sets she’d ever seen. 

I love this place. I hate it but I love it. So much. 

“Congrats.” Lonnie deadpans when I come back to her. 

“What? I got the landing. Didn’t you see it?”

“Not that. I mean Scorpia.”

“What about her?”

“You know she’s got a soft spot for you. Plus you haven’t seen her in months and all you were was mean to her.”

“I wasn’t mean!” I’m still pissed she didn’t see the landing. 

"Catra you didn't even say hello."

"Yeah I did!" I didn’t. Lonnie watches my face until she can see I’ve realised that. I roll my eyes.

“Whatever. Scorpia’s basically a golden retriever, she’ll get over it.”

“Well I’m glad the landing was more important than having a heart.”

“You’re such an asshole, Lonnie.” I turn my back on her and stalk off “I’m going to get some water.” 

“Way to miss the point, Catra!” Lonnie yells, but I pretend I don’t hear. 

Over by the water fountain is Rogelio, another of my Horde favourites, mainly because he literally never speaks more than a word a day. He’s listening to one of the junior technicians; some short guy with sandy hair and a worthy, wheedling voice that gets on my nerves. Still, as I bend to drink, I can’t help but overhear.

“So I heard there’s been a big summons from the top,” this kid is saying “Y-you know, Horde High Command. All the troupes round the world are coming back from their missions. Shanghai. Sydney. Tokyo. London….the works. Yeah, I know, it must be something big, right?” he nods as though Rogelio’s spoken, though I doubt he could have got a word in edgeways “Only Captain Scorpia’s group is back so far but the rest will be here within the week, we’ve been scrambling to get all the barracks ready in time, you wouldn’t believe the amount of cleaning supplies …”

Okay so I’m bored now. He’s talking about changing sheets and extra laundry and my ears are literally wilting. Rogelio, however, looks…strangely charmed? 

_Woah I am not thinking about THAT ever again _

Rogelio’s bad-taste boy-crush has given me plenty to think about though. The main Horde’s coming back? All of them? If the Captains are assembling that can only mean two things; either we’re going bust, or there’s a Reselection due. 

Fully aware I’ve just bombarded you with Hoard-lingo, but whatever; it’s a hard habit to break. 

You’ve probably heard of Cirque du Horde. If you're in a city with a subway, we're the ones with the is-that-real-blood type posters everywhere. Basically all you need to know is that we're a global performance company' circus and gymnastics and all the stuff. We're famous for two things; our perfect performances and our brutal training regimes. Life in the Horde is basically like the army, or at least that's what the several ex-marines in our number say. The military edge runs through everything we do - they even call shows ‘missions’ and grunts like me, Lonnie and Rogelio ‘cadets’. Captains are the soloists, the ones that get their own spotlights in the shows and badass stage names (not lame ones like Wildcat - or Scorpia, though I actually think that might be her real name, she told me once she’d wanted her Captain name to be ‘Lil Snippy’. I rest my case.). 

Captain selection is Shadow Weaver’s job - which is why I’ll get a stage name right about when Hell freezes over. 

The only other thing is Reselection, which is too bad to think about right now, in the middle of the gym floor when there are too many people who know how to read when my anger turns to panic. 

_He’s not coming back, Catra. He’s not coming here. He never comes here._  
Unless it’s Reselection.  
STOP.

I run back to the mat and tumble until my head is spinning and there is no more room for fear. My bad mood lasts until the end of practice. This means that I ace everything I try (much to everyone’s annoyance, as usual) but that all I feel is shitty and burnt out at the end. We file out, piling on layers to move from sweaty hall to freezing street. I’m almost out the door when Scorpia calls my name. 

“Hey Wildcat!” She’s in the corner of the changing rooms, surrounded by a gaggle of cadets and carrying a large paper box in her big clumsy hands. “Come here, I have something for you.”

“What is it?” I ask, moving closer, but warily. The group disperses as I reach it, leaving only Lonnie and Rogelio, two of the few who dare to get within range of me these days (apparently I’m “scary”. Whatever. You punch _one_ gym bro _one time_ and suddenly everyone wants to stay out of your way.). At least they’re also getting whatever is in the box; if Scorpia had got something for me alone I’d already be out the door, running. 

The box doesn’t have a lid and its contents is filling the changing room with the most incredible smell. Still, this is the Horde; it could be a trap. Steeling myself, I peer inside the box. 

It’s a pie, homemade and warm and steaming gently. she must have had one of the technicians heat it for her whilst we were finishing practice. The changing rooms are cool and my body is aching for food after all that work. I can’t help it, I lean closer. 

“Made it myself,” Scorpia beams at me, pink spots high on each cheek “Aw I know it’s a lot but I was just so happy to be back here and see you...see you all...I had to make something! Here, have a slice. It’s chocolate and chilli - your favourite, right?” 

“Oh my god you _have_ to, Catra,” Lonnie groans, her grin sticky and content “It’s _amazing_. Hey Scorpia, can I have the recipe?” Rogelio, behind her, stuffs his mouth again and moans in a way that is frankly obscene. 

“I-” My mouth is watering. I can’t look away from the box. The slice oozes at me and its smell is basically pornographic. Chilli chocolate really is my favourite; dark and rich and strong, just like this. My fingers twitch and my arm moves on its own, up from my side and out across to pick up the slice and -

_Catra, you know better than anyone not to trust the scale._

...and I push the box away.

"Your cooking sucks, Scorpia." I say "And anyway, I’m not hungry."

And if I dream about that slice of pie all fucking week, and the way the steam curled around Scorpia’s face, bright with hurt but still smiling? Well, who gives a damn.


	4. Meet Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I FELT SO BAD FOR CATRA I NEEDED TO ADD SOME ADORA AND CUTE. Here you go :) She's still grumpy and stressed but hopefully this is more fun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FELT SO BAD FOR CATRA I NEEDED TO ADD SOME ADORA AND CUTE. Here you go :) She's still grumpy and stressed but hopefully this is more fun?

Chapter 4: Meet Cute

After a few days I forget about Blondie. Sounds harsh but it’s true. Shadow Weaver’s schedule doesn’t leave time for eating and sleeping, let alone mooning over mysterious goddesses with perfect biceps. Plus, more and more Captains are arriving by the day and, although there has been absolutely nothing official said about Reselection freaking anywhere, I’m still pretending not to be shitting bricks every time I hear the tannoy click in the main gym.

So, a week later, when I see her again, like actually in real life, it doesn’t feel real. It’s like seeing a celebrity out and about (or in this case, one of those asshole teachers from school who you like to believe just powers down in a cupboard once the end-of-day bell rings) . Needless to say, the sight of her makes me both furious and stupid in the same breath. 

Worse still, it happens in _Starcups_.

I don’t even normally go to Starcups. First, because in this city the only people who actually hang out in one are either too weird or too privileged to notice that they are soulless shitholes. Second, I’ve spent most of my life with less than 50 bucks in my bank account at any one time, and no way was I ever gonna spend a tenth of that on brown goop in a cup. 

Now though, for the first time in a while, I’m not hurting for money - Cirque du Horde gets the best people, and keeps them, because it pays way above the going rate. After literally years of unpaid performance work as a minor, I’ve been on the Hoard’s actual payroll for just over two years now, and cleared my debt over the summer, but it still feels alien to me. Still, we live in the part of town that’s so modern it literally only has chain stores to hang out in, and the combination of soft sofas and superfast wifi means this has started to become my regular Wednesday haunt. 

As per every Wednesday, I’m out with Rogelio, our resident fire breather. He’s this massive, jacked dude from Colombia, raised in Florida (everyone jokes he was actually raised by the crocodiles). We became friends because he’s the only other one of the Horde troupe who knows how to cook and made the mistake of feeding me when I was hungry (literally the only way I will become friends with someone, and that Bandeja Paisa? I still dream about it to this day).

He’s not really the talking type (like, at all. Basically he gets by with grunts and growls. Lonnie has this theory that he actually breathes fire all the time and did it at the expense of his actual vocal chords, but I can confirm with authority that he has spoken to me - even though it was only one word and that was ‘Macchiato’).

He hates talking and I hate everything; we work out well together. People at the Horde think we’re dating, which is hilarious. I mean...no. Just no on so many levels. What we are though, aside from the Disaster Gays Alliance? Is business partners. And Starcups-on-Wednesdays is where we meet to hash out ideas.

First though, comes the coffee.

It makes sense that I get our order. Rogelio grabs a table and gets out our laptops whist I wander up to the counter, fiddling with my phone. The lock screen is a picture of Kyle (Yes I’m still calling him Kyle. Shut up.) sunning himself, belly-up in the middle of my bed, and I pretend I’m hanging out there while actual me waits for the queue to ebb away. 

Then I hear it. That voice. Husky, sexy, unmistakeable. 

It’s Blondie alright: Blondie outside of her flat, not in pyjamas but head to toe in fitted black, inexpert mascara, hair pulled back (holy shit is that an _undercut_?). She’s standing behind the counter, adding baked goods to the display racks and smiling at this short girl in expensive workout gear, who’s talking intensely and sipping a unicorn frap as purple and fluffy as her hair. She’s not my type, but I can tell from the looks she’s getting from around the room that those gymshark sweats are _really_ working for her. From this distance, I can’t tell if they’re friends or flirting. The only thing for sure is that I’ve got a front row seat into Blondie’s mysterious life...and it’s nothing like I’d thought. 

She’s a barista? At a _Starcups_?!  
No.  
No fucking _WAY_!

Oh this is gold. It makes no sense but I am exploiting the fuck out of it anyway.

Ignoring the actual server, I saunter a little closer, casually, like I've planned this whole thing. She sees me and freezes, forgetting Purple Puff in an instant. I can't help but smirk at that. 

“Hey,” I say, eyes dropping deliberately to the badge on her chest. “_Adora_. Long time no see.”

Adora. I mean what kind of a name is that?

[it’s Adorable - shut UP CATRA.]

She jerks like a marionette, flushing scarlet. Oh, this is _fun_.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m working here.” I say.

She frowns “You’re a barista?”

“No, I’m _working_ here.” I point at Rogelio's table and our laptops. “You’re the barista, dummy.”

“Oh yeah. Right.” the flush deepens. How can she be such a goof and yet so sharp the other night? “Can I take your order?”

I give it (no I’m not telling you my order, nosy bastards) and ask for them both to be for Rogelio (she’s not getting my name unless she asks for it. God I want her to ask for it.) and try not to stare at her whilst the machines whirr and the line moves on. 

Minutes later, she’s there, chirping “Coffees for Rogelio,” I stroll up and take them, flashing her a slow-burning smile.

“Gee, thanks Adora,” I purr, licking the very tip of the whipped cream off with my tongue and making sure I catch her eye. I am certain I see her smile before I turn around, but don’t let myself look back. 

My heart rate is back to normal by the time I get to our table. I lay out the cups, then catch sight of something on the side of mine. I always get takeaway cups (keeps the drink warmer for longer. You’re welcome.) and I can see that Adora has written on them. On one it reads Rogelio (standard) but on mine there’s just a little doodle of a cat. 

“Aw,” I suppress a grin. I’m totally gonna over-analyse this for weeks but for now, its enough to know she’s a dork (and that she can’t draw for shit).

“Catra.”

“What, Rogelio?” I snap. Rogelio’s used his word for the day, clearly, but he smirks and shows me his phone on selfie mode. 

I have a big fat blob of cream on my nose.  
Oh _fuck_.


	5. Not Adorable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra has a day off...and it goes much better than she'd expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys! I COMPLETED NANOWRIMO THOUGH! :D So there is more of this fic to go around. It hasn't been BETA'd so apologies for errors etc. I am a bit frazzled from churning out much words in little times. <3 
> 
> Are there things you'd like to see these disaster lovelies get up to ? If so, comment and let me know and I will work them into the plot for you!

The next day is a wet one; one of those that are all grey sky and drizzle. 

It’s also my one day off a week so I intend to spend it as indulgently as possible. At six, hours after I’m normally up, I stretch lazily, dislodging Kyle from his favourite sleeping position (my face, though we manage to negotiate and he ends up under my chin like a big vibrating hot water bottle) and fix him breakfast whilst he mews and twines around my ankles. This time of day is actually my favourite; the sun’s on it’s way up, the city isn’t at full swing yet, but there’s a hum of traffic below that reminds me that I’m part of something bigger. 

We’re all allowed our illusions, okay?

I fix myself some coffee and curl up on my chair with my laptop. There are some emails and suggestions from Rogelio (who types a LOT more than he speaks, Jesus). I shoot down about five of these ideas but the other three aren’t half bad. This business idea with Rogelio is so early on, and the part that involves actual hope and belief that it _will be okay_ means I can’t even think about it outside of designated times, let alone describe it here. I guess all you need to know is that we’re still on the ideas stage and there’s so much to do even then. 

Typical boring morning so far. I’m only telling you this because of what happens next. 

So after emails and Kyle and all that crap, it ends up being about 10am by the time I go down and check my mail. The apartment building has a set of little pigeon hole-sized boxes by the entrance, like small lockers, each with their own key. I wander down on auto-pilot, spinning my key from one fingertip, when a noise up ahead makes me freeze.

There she is. Adora. 

I linger on the stairwell, unnoticed, and watch her. (yes, fuck off, I know).

She’s in running gear; soft greys speckled by the rain, and her hair is back in a ponytail again. The shaved-short stripe of hair around the base of her head makes her neck look long, vulnerable and strangely elegant. 

_Stop fucking staring. _

She’s also checking her mail, or that’s what I think at first. Only after a few seconds do I realise that she’s not looking in her mail box but looking for someone else’s. She’s leaning close to the labels (does she need glasses or something?) one fingertip extended as it skims under name after name. Each one has the flat number and full name of the occupant, and judging by her reading pace and squinting, it’s gonna take her all day to find whoever she’s looking for. 

But then, suddenly, she stops, giving a little squeak of triumph. Now, call me paranoid, but I can remember where my mailbox is even at this distance and, unless I am very much mistaken, the mailbox she is pointing at and getting so excited about, is mine. 

I sidle down the stairs and wait until I am within two steps of her before I speak.

“Uh, what are you doing?” I say, suppressing a smirk as she jumps about ten feet in the air. 

“IWASN’T- oh...hi.” she pulls away from the mailboxes like they’ve burned her, and turns to look at me. She’s such a dork; all big and bashful like a kid who’s just been caught trying to unwrap their Christmas presents early. 

“That’s my mailbox,” I say, to let her know I don’t buy the innocence for one second. She actually gets redder, which I didn't think was physically possible. 

“Oh...um...see, I…” her face is an open book. I watch her mentally try out several excuses, then give up and decide to tell the truth. “Okay so after I met you again yesterday I just...I wanted to find out your name. And when I saw the mailboxes...”

“You thought this would be a less creepy alternative than actually asking me?” I lean against the wall, head tilted. I’m trying so hard not to smile right now “Y’know, that’s sort of _adora_ble.”

She frowns at me and it makes this cute little line push up between her eyebrows. “Oh, I’ve never heard _that_ one before.”

“Maybe you should stop proving the stereotype,” I smirk, then, because she’s standing there all embarrassed and mussed and rain splattered I start to say “Hey, would you like to-”

“Wanna come to mine for a coffee?” Adora steamrollers over me, then brushes _again_ “Oh, sorry, you were saying something-”

“Not important,” _phew, lucky save_\- let _her_ be the one to do the awkward asking. I can live with that. “And, sure, if you insist.”

Definitely not smiling right now. Nope. I am edgy and cool and impassive. 

“Really?” Adora’s smile is just so fucking pure- it lights the hallway. “Great,” she says, “let’s go.”

We climb to our floor and get to her door, making small-talk that I completely forget the moment I’m inside. It’s hard not to think back to the last time I was here, what, ten-ish days ago? In very different circumstances. Sure enough, it’s exactly how I remember- all too-neat and showhome-y, with fake flowers, expensive but dated fabrics, and a complete lack of anything personal anywhere. 

Adora, at odds with the entire fancy and understated surroundings, sweeps her arm around like a conductor. “Welcome!” she says, then remembers “Or, uh, welcome...back? I guess?"

“Yeah, I’m...sorry...again, about that.” that word tastes so bad in my mouth. I don’t do sorry. It was the damn cat’s fault anyway. 

“Oh don’t worry about it,” Adora says, “I was up anyway and it was...it was sorta funny?” She looks at me and, though she’s a few inches taller, it seems as though she’s looking up, like a kid wanting approval. 

“Yeah,” I’m smiling now, “It was pretty fucking hilarious.” 

There’s a moment between us. It passes too quickly for me to figure out what it means. Adora senses it too, I think, because she starts fussing around, getting me to sit down on one of the overstuffed beige sofas. She makes us both coffees in this fancy machine on the kitchen island (we're in this open-plan kitchen-diner space that is WAY bigger than my whole flat) that takes her too long to operate (I get the feeling this is the first time she's actually used it). She hands me a brimming mug of black coffee (I'll take it) and flumps down in the chair opposite, almost spilling her drink. Her endless legs sprawl out across the cushions. 

_Damn it, Catra! What did we say about the staring thing?!_

“Nice place you have here,” I say, because it’s what you’re supposed to say. Adora grimaces to let me know she doesn’t buy my comment for a second. 

“No it isn’t, it’s...soulless. Plus, it’s not really mine. It belonged to my guardian. That’s why most of this looks fresh out of the noughties, and why I’m honestly a bit terrified to touch anything. She travelled a lot, so this place never really looked lived-in.”

“You never lived here?”

“Not until she died and I found out it was willed to me,” Adora said, shifting a little on the sofa and taking a large sip of coffee “We used to have this bigger house in another city, but that had to be sold, along with almost everything else. This, though, was left to me, so I’d never be without a place to go again.” I take in the hunch in her shoulders and the nervous fiddling of her fingers around the half-empty cup, and feel something in my chest soften. I know that feeling and I know it well.

“You’re an orphan.”

“Yeah,” she smiles, but it doesn’t even come close to reaching her eyes. “How did you know?”

“Takes one to know one, I guess.” I say “Though, I mean, I do still have a guardian so…” Oh man that made me sound like an asshole. Adora doesn’t seem bothered though- maybe a little relieved.

“Oh, that's good. Do they live with you?”

“Ha! No.” I snort “Shadow Weaver would never live with me. I was either at boarding school or camping out at HQ until I was 18. I don’t think I even know where she lives.”

“Shadow Weaver?” Adora frowns “That’s...uh...a strange name?”

I shrug. “It’s a stage name. We all use them in the Hoard.”

“Wait,” her eyes go really wide “You’re with the _Hoard_?” 

I raise a single, sassy brow. “Yes, genius. I was literally wearing all-over branded gear last time we met.”

There is an answering brow. “Last time we met was 2.30am,” Ohh, Adora can be _feisty_. I _like_ this. 

“What, your eyes don’t work at 2.30am?”

“They work just fine! It was ….ah….mostly I just noticed that it was black and sort of tight and I-” she’s fiddling with her cup again “I actually thought you might be an um….uh…”

“Spit it out, already.”

“A lady of the night.” Adora looks like she wants to die. 

My mouth falls open. Woah. I did not see that one coming. “You thought I was a _prostitute_??”

“NO! Just...ah...l-like a kissogram or something! That’s the word right? When someone pays a person to surprise them by dressing up all sexy and-”

“You thought I was a stripper.”

“Yes! I mean, no! Oh god I’m so sorry!” she buries her face in her hands, forgetting the coffee cup. I snatch it up before it falls and put it gently on the table next to her chair.

“You sure you didn’t put alcohol in this?” _ Because you’re blabbing like a fifteen year old after their first vodka soda. _

Adora shakes her head, hard “No no, I don’t drink. It’s the caffeine, I guess. It makes me talk,” She looks sheepish. She tries to take another sip of coffee again. I want to hug her. And shake her. Maybe both at once? 

“Okay, so no more coffee for you.” I pluck the cup back out of her hands and head over to her kitchen (did I mention she has a proper kitchen island, sparkling counter tops, the works). “Do you have chamomile?”

“Um, maybe? I don’t really...use the kitchen. Like at all. There might be some left in there from before…” 

I see the pain in her face and wave the words away. “I’ll find something. Just sit there and keep talking,” 

“It should be me making you tea,” she mumbles whilst I set the kettle to boil and fish out a fresh mug and tea bag (this dead guardian of Adora’s had quite the collection, I find - all out of date but what the hell. Tea doesn’t actually expire, right?). “I’m sorry. I sort of forgotten how to have guests. I only moved to this city a few months ago and it’s just...it's kinda lonely, you know? Kyle...I mean, Whiskers, helped out a bit but of course he was yours so…”

“He’s called Kyle now,” I cut her off and give her the hot cup. “Drink this. And do you have a blanket or something? It’s freezing in here,”

“It’s because of the screen,” Adora says, sipping the tea, realising it’s too hot, and settling on cradling it carefully. “The one that Whisk...that _Kyle_ got through the other night. I haven’t got round to fixing it properly yet. Plus, paper screens aren’t great anyway. Light Hope spent a lot of time in Japan so I guess she wanted to bring some of that home with her? Still it means it gets so cold at night.”

“Wait, her name was _Light Hope_?”

“She was a little weird.”

“Well that’s the understatement of the year.” I wrinkle my nose "Who am I to talk though? We were literally just talking about how my guardian’s called Shadow Weaver, and I basically spend all my time hanging out with idiots with murderous stage names." I spot a blanket out of the corner of my eye and grab it, dumping it over Adora’s shoulders. She almost spills her tea, but not quite. 

“Wow I am being the worst host,” Adora says in a small voice, trying to laugh. “Thanks for this, it’s perfect. Thanks for listening to all my blathering too, I know I go on too much sometimes and...ah…” she sniffs a bit (oh please don’t be tears. I can’t do tears) “...I’m sorry again for creeping on your mailbox, I guess after I saw you twice in a week I thought, well, I thought I’d at least find out who you were,” 

“Yeah, well, I was kind of an asshole not to give you my name in Starcups.”

“Ha, so that was deliberate!” She gives me a wobbly grin but - oh holy shit no - are those tears in her eyes?

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit SHIT. 

Panic stations. I only know one solution for this and I need to act fast. 

“Stay here,” I say, and hurry out before she can stop me. When I return a couple of minutes later, my arms full of struggling, mewling fur-lump, she looks like all her Christmases came at once.

“KYLE!” she squeaks, sadness totally forgotten (she must be the same breed of golden retriever as Scorpia). Adora scoops him out of my arms and waltzes round the room, squeezing the stunned cat to her chest in that I-want-to-crush-you-with-love cute-aggression way that I relate to on a frankly spiritual level. “My BABYYYY!” Kyle, unsurprisingly, is having none of this. He scrabbles free, all claws, and streaks off to hide somewhere. 

“Come back!” Adora whines, chasing after him for a few steps, then giving up and flopping back onto the sofa. 

“Relax,” I tell her, curling back into the chair “He’ll be back. His memory lasts 20 seconds tops so-”

“- so he’ll forget why he was running.” Adora finishes for me, and this time her smile is real; not quite the room-brightening one from before, but better at least. Something unwinds a little in my chest. It’s a good start. 

Sure enough, a few minutes later, meowy-Mcgee comes in, his wonky tail up like a flag of welcome. He comes past, investigates our chairs, then paws at Adora’s shins until she sets aside her tea and lifts him into her lap. Once there, he makes about eight circles, kneading her thighs so that she winces, then settles down into a contented loaf shape. Adora chuckles and makes a fuss of him. Once he is settled and purring, she starts to stroke him properly. Her fingers, long pale and surprisingly delicate, move through his fur in strong, soothing motions. 

I have never been more envious of anyone in my life. 

“You brought him back.” she says, eventually, and it is too soft to be a proper question, but I can hear the query in it.

“Yeah he was getting on my nerves anyway.” I shrug again, trying not to stare at the way her hands move. “Plus, I think he missed you.”

As if on cue, Kyle stretches up to bop Adora’s hand with his head, purring so hard that he’s starting to sound hoarse. Then, because the sucker is too blissed-out from Adora’s petting, he loses his balance and nearly falls. We both laugh.

“He reminds me of this dog I had when I was little,” Adora says eventually, once Kyle has righted himself. “He was a golden retriever, but really pale, almost white, and we always joked he was part greyhound because he ran so fast.” She smiles, soft and still a little sad but (thank fuck) no longer sniffly “I loved him so much. I was, like, six, I think? And going through this big unicorn phase, so I used to make him wear this headband with a little horn on it and take him on adventures, pretending I was riding him across all these magical lands. It was lame but so fun, you know? Adora and Swift Wind, saving the world.”

“You called him _Swift Wind_?” I stifle a laugh, exasperated and charmed by imagining tiny, gap-toothed Adora, running around with her majestic steed.

“Oh shut up,” she laughs, throwing a cushion at me. 

I’m not sure how, but we end up sitting there for most of the afternoon, just talking and being idiots and swapping Kyle between us whenever he gets restless. I tell her some stuff about my boarding school, she tells me about the college she graduated from over the summer (she double majored in philosophy and classics - no wonder she’s this weird combination of super smart and totally useless). We don’t talk about anything further back on our timelines, or anything too close to the present - it’s an unspoken agreement that we somehow both reached, to just stay here, in the safe bubble of the recent past, in this warm, cushioned place where the only sound is a distant clock and Kyle’s thunderous purrs.

Eventually, but before we’ve run out of things to say, I realise it's getting towards my (stupidly early) pre-training bedtime and make my excuses. Adora offers to make me a late lunch and I refuse (she’ll probably poison us both, or burn down the building, I know this without needing to see her anywhere near an oven). When she stands up to escort me to the door and wakes Kyle to give him to me, I hold out a hand to stop her. 

“Nah, he can stay with you for a bit,” I say, as though there isn’t a hook in my chest pulling tighter and tighter at the thought of leaving both of them behind that door. “You have fancier stuff for him anyway. And I’m training all day tomorrow.”

Adora shakes her head.

“No, he’s still your cat.” she calls Kyle over and scoops him up, snuggling into his fur for a second before handing him over to me. “Thank you, though, for bringing him. I...I didn’t realise how much I needed it.” Her eyes are so warm and open and trusting. 

“Whatever, you dork,” I say, before I fall apart. I cuddle Kyle a bit tighter “Come on, fluffalump. Let’s get you back.” My eyes catch Adora's over Kyle's head and a smile flickers between us; there’s something we share now, I can feel it, and I don’t think it’s just the cat. 

I walk back to my apartment and unlock the door, letting Kyle scrabble down and into the dark. 

“Bye Adora,” I call, a little teasing, before I shut the door.

I hear her call from round the corner - she must have been waiting for me, the dweeb “Goodnight!”

I close the door behind me. The flat is cold and feels more sparse than ever, but once I get into my bed and pull the covers in close, I smile the whole night long.


End file.
